


Hit It Like Hawkeye

by AdamantSteve



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint is a famous soccer star, Domestic, Football | Soccer, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Night Stand, Phil is a girl's soccer coach, Soccer AU, but they have a past!, closeted Clint, coach Phil, except not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson is the coach of a highschool girls soccer team, and the ladies fangirl over international soccer star Clint “Hawkeye” Barton like crazy. Little do they know that Barton and their coach have a long history, one that’s about to collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hit It Like Hawkeye

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt in the summary. 
> 
> As it's pretty long (at least for me!) this fic took FOREVER to finish! It wouldn't have happened without the massive contribution from[ Ralkana](http://ralkana.tumblr.com/) in her amazing, invaluable beta, and [Dunicha](http://dunicha.tumblr.com/) for earlier betaing (I think? I can barely remember, this fic has had such a long gestation!) 
> 
> And it's finally finished just in time for the World Cup! How serendipitous :)
> 
> One warning: there's a broken leg at one point in the story but it's not too graphically described.

 

 

 

Phil flips through the clipboard of fixtures while the girls warm up, stretching out their hamstrings and tying their hair. It’s a chilly April afternoon, and he jumps up and down on the spot to warm himself up. There’s a game against Wilmore High on Saturday, and since Phil’s team lost abysmally last time they played Wilmore, he’s hoping he can drum a modicum of tactical planning into the team’s heads. 

 

He splits the girls into two groups and has one dribble balls up and down the field while the other group tries to tackle them. Bishop and Chavez end up in a scuffle which quickly devolves into the two of them wrestling for the ball between them. Phil blows his whistle sharply on the way to loom over them with his hands on his hips. 

 

“Are you kidding me? You’re on the same team, girls!” They look down at their matching red shirts, and then Kate grumbles something under her breath before taking the ball, booting it across the field and running after it. 

 

America looks smug til Phil stares her down. “What was that about?” 

 

She shrugs. “She wants to be captain? I don’t know.” 

 

Phil sighs and resists the urge to hold out a hand to help her up; America’s been captain for a while, and she’s good at it, but he doesn’t want to show any sort of favouritism even if she is the best player on the team, especially when this animosity seems to run both ways. He knows Kate’s been vying to move out of midfield and be team captain. Privately, he thinks she’ll be perfect in a season’s time. He makes a mental note to say so later when he’s talked to the pair of them properly. 

 

He blows the whistle again and they all crowd over. He puts Romanov as captain of the blue team and subs in Van Dyne as captain of the red one. Phil can sense the hatred coming off of Kate in waves. “Now, remember what I said about working in threes. Be aware of your teammates and keep on your toes! Wilmore are gonna stick to you like glue on Saturday, so you need to try to use that to your advantage. If you’re in possession of the ball _, keep it_. And I don’t want to see any flailing around on the ground looking for fouls,” he looks pointedly at Natasha who rolls her eyes. 

 

“Yes, Coach,” she replies in a sing-song voice. He blows the whistle sharply and watches them scatter, leaving Janet and Natasha in the middle where he tosses the coin. 

 

Phil rubs a thumb over the old silver dollar before throwing it and handing the ball to Janet, who squeals with delight. She’s a terrible captain but a good runner, good for catching long passes, too. He referees the game, keeping with the action and calling out reminders to keep their arms out of the way and avoid flailing into each other’s faces. He catches Maria Hill purposely jabbing Nikki Fury in the ribs and gives her a yellow card when she pretends she didn’t do anything. Blue team wins two goals to one in the thirty minute game and they wrap it up after a jog up and down the field.

 

Back in the locker room, Phil gives them a brief pep talk, since they won’t have another practice before Saturday, and he wants to make sure they aren’t going to do anything stupid like forget  to bring their gear or a hairband (even though he has drawers full of goddamn hairbands, it’s the principle of the thing). Maria argues with his announcement that they’ll be playing in a 4-4-2 formation, though she has dreams of becoming the first female Premier League manager and argues with every arrangement Phil comes up with. She even gave Phil a laminated explanation of the 7-2-1 Super Defense Formation she came up with herself a while back.

 

Phil goes back to his office and hangs up his whistle, changes back into regular shoes and checks all zero messages on his phone. The girls start to file out past his door as he flips through the mail. Clint Barton is on the front cover of _Goal!_ Magazine again, and Phil shakes his head at just how far Clint’s come since their days running around at soccer camp together.

 

“Are you gonna keep the poster?” asks Janet, head tucked around the doorframe. Phil laughs and rips open the plastic. “Why do you ask?” 

 

“Oh, just wondering...” she lies, scooting out of the way when Kate steps past her to sit in Phil’s office with a face like thunder. He opens the magazine to the middle and sure enough, there’s a double page poster of Clint in action, heading a ball and somehow still looking good doing it. He carefully tears it out and hands it over. Janet holds in her squeal til she’s in the corridor, but it’s as piercing as ever and Phil works hard to hide his smile.  

 

America comes in and sits next to Kate. Phil’s reminded of magnets they way they seem so repelled by one another. 

 

“Do you wanna tell me what the problem is?” he asks, flipping through his magazine. They both sit in sullen silence and Phil continues his flipping. It’s Kate who huffs first, and then it quickly devolves into the beginnings of a teenage catfight before he slaps the magazine down with a disappointingly quiet plop. 

 

They both look guilty and he sighs. “Look, you don’t have to tell me what’s going on if you don’t want to, but at the end of the day, you’re both good players and you’re both valuable members of the _same team_. You don’t have to be best friends but at least try to be civil to one another. Ok?” He waits for them both to sullenly answer ‘Yes, Coach,’ before telling them to shake hands, which they do reluctantly. “Now tell each other you’re sorry,” he instructs, “and that you’re honoured to be on such an amazing team together.”

 

They both look askance but Phil just folds his arms til they do it. Better they think he’s weird than hate each other, he reasons. “Well done,” he says to their eyerolls. “Now off to class.” 

 

-

 

On the day of the game against Wilmore, Phil’s up early making sure everything’s set for the visiting team. Janet and Maria are the first to arrive, and they chatter away about their favourite players while Phil checks over the away team’s lockers to make sure there are no hidden surprises. “Who’s your favourite, Coach?” Janet asks, and he dusts off his hands while he tries to decide how to word his standard ‘I love all my students equally’ speech. 

 

Hill rolls her eyes. “Not out of us, who’s your favourite soccer player?”

 

“Oh!” Phil laughs. “Barton, of course.” 

 

Janet cries ‘yay’ while Maria wrinkles her nose. 

 

“Don’t you like Clint Barton?” he asks. 

 

“No, he’s amazing and all but _everyone_ loves him.” 

 

“Yeah, cause he’s the best,” Janet informs her. 

 

“I like Peter Parker,” Hill says haughtily; Parker is a promising 19-year-old striker who’s lately been labelled ‘the reincarnation of Steve Rogers.’

 

“Lame,” says Natasha as she walks in. “It’s all about Barton.” 

 

Phil sits down on one of the benches opposite the three girls and sips the coffee he made in the empty staffroom when he came in. 

 

There’s going to be an exhibition game in a few weeks time, and Phil’s organised a trip for his team to go and watch it, so talk of favourites and preferred signatures and such has been even more prevalent than usual. 

 

As he listens to the girls chatter around him, Phil drinks his coffee and idly imagines Clint waving to him from the field like he used to. He wonders if Clint would even recognise him now. 

 

-

 

The game actually goes pretty well. They win, but both Maria and Natasha get yellow cards. The animosity between America and Kate seems to actually work in the team’s favour for once, with them both fighting extra hard for the ball if only to outdo each other. Two goals to one puts them in a good position in the league and Phil’s feeling pretty proud of his team once the final whistle blows. 

 

-

 

The next practice, Phil reminds the girls about bringing in their permission forms for their field trip to the game next week. There are a smattering of squeals and a few more subdued ‘awesome’s. “Next week we’re going to Grayson Academy,” he reminds them, “so it’s all about goal defense.” He nods at Maria when he says they’ll be using a 4-5-1 formation and she grins happily.

 

-

 

They get thrashed at Grayson in an embarrassing 5-1 loss. They return home with dark clouds, heavy with rain that only starts to fall in earnest when they’re getting off of the bus. It’s testament to just how miserable they all are that no one even complains.

 

When Phil gets home and dries off, he’s cooking dinner when his phone chimes. There are a couple of junk mails, one email reminding him of the game tomorrow and one that looks almost like junk but has Phil clicking it anyway.

 

_Hey, Phil. Sorry about the last minute email out of the blue, but I’m going to be in town for a couple of days for a football thing. If you aren’t doing anything we could hang out? I’m not sure you’re even in NY anymore but either way, hi :) We’re touring the country so if you’re free I can get you tickets?_

_Let me know. I hope this is the right email address._

 

_Clint_

 

Phil realises he’s still staring at the message when his pasta starts boiling over. He rushes to move it off the heat and then hastily finishes making dinner, setting it aside where it gets cold as he tries to compose a response. 

 

In the end, he writes:

 

_Dear Clint,_

 

_I’m excited to hear from you! I figured you'd forgotten little old me! I do still live in NY, and I’m actually coming to the game tomorrow, along with the soccer team I coach. Where are you staying? I can come in to the city, just say when and where. I'd love to see you._

 

Phil sends it before he can edit it too much more and manages to get his food halfway to his mouth before the phone chimes again.

 

_Of course I remember you! Are you kidding? I’m staying at the Plaza! Imagine if Coach could see me now, eh? I’ll come get you if you give me an address._

 

-

 

A car pulls up a while after Phil’s given Clint his address, and he straightens out his jacket one last time. He shouldn’t feel so full of butterflies, they’re old friends really, but still, they haven’t seen each other for fifteen years, and the last time they saw each other they’d made all sorts of juvenile promises not to let that happen. 

 

There’s a knock at the door and Phil jumps, takes a deep breath before opening it. There he is: Clint Barton. A slow grin slides across the face Phil has thought about far too often the last decade and a half; it's older and perhaps wiser but still as awkwardly pretty as ever. 

 

“Hi,” Clint says, and Phil’s grin matches his when he replies in kind before being pulled into a hug. It’s brief and ends with Clint’s arms either side of him. “It’s been a while.” 

 

“It has!” Phil replies. “You wanna come in?” He’s not entirely sure what the idea even is here. Some old-friend hookup deal or just passing the time with a friendly face? 

 

“I figured since we’re old enough to actually go into O’Malley’s now...” 

 

Phil laughs. “Sure.” 

 

Clint drives them over in his sporty rental car, his driving as erratic and terrifying as ever. Music pounds so loud they barely talk, but Phil steals furtive glances at Clint, who grins every time he catches Phil looking. He’s beautiful, Phil thinks, not for the first time. In less time than seems appropriate, they’re pulling up outside the bar they used to try to sneak into as kids. 

 

Clint seems pretty wary of the others in the bar, sitting in a booth apart from everybody, so Phil leaves him there while he orders two beers and some peanuts. 

 

The grin is there again when Phil returns, and they clink their bottles together before both taking long drafts. “So,” Phil says at the same time as Clint says “Well,” and they laugh before Clint ducks his head and gestures for Phil to go on. It’s almost like he’s the one who’s bashful about meeting again after all these years, though Phil’s just a boring gym teacher now. He's not the one who's one of the biggest soccer stars on the planet. 

 

“So,” Phil starts again. “Back in Short Hills, huh?” 

 

“Back in Short Hills,” Clint says, ducking his head and grinning some more. 

 

“How come... I mean don’t you guys have strip clubs to go to? Orgies to attend... That sort of thing?” 

 

Clint raises his eyebrows and and then rolls his eyes. “Nah, I don’t do that kinda stuff. I mean, I did, don’t get me wrong, but not anymore.” 

 

Phil nods. “So instead you visit the suburbs.” Clint rolls his eyes again as Phil continues, “No, I mean, Short Hills is pretty much the unofficial cultural centre of America; we’ve got the Rose City Mall, the Livingston Mall... we’ve got ‘The Mall’. I could go on.”

 

There are soft lines by Clint’s eyes when he laughs, and Phil’s almost saddened by them. It’s been so long since they’ve been this close. 

 

“You know, I actually kinda miss the malls,” Clint says. At Phil’s skeptical look he raises his eyebrows mid-swig. “Really! London’s great and all, but I miss going to the _mall_.” 

 

“Shut up,” Phil says after a moment. “You miss going to _the mall_?” 

 

“Yeah! I can’t really do that stuff anymore.” 

 

“Oh.” Phil hadn’t really thought about that. “Do people give you a hard time?” Phil asks, thinking of the hordes of people that must clamour for Clint’s autograph wherever he goes and the way Clint ducked into a booth without even looking around.

 

“No, not really, just, people recognise me and then I can’t move around so much. I kinda miss being a nobody, you know?” 

 

A sharp puff of air huffs through Phil’s nose, surprising even him. Clint thinks he’s insulted Phil and rushes to apologise. “Sorry, I don’t mean-”

 

“No, no it’s ok, I get it, that must be horrible. Do you get paparazzi and stuff following you around?” Clint nods and pulls a face. “That sucks.” 

 

“Eh,” he shrugs. “I’m used to it now. Which is kinda weird, never thought I’d be used to having long-lenses shoved in my face.” 

 

Clint doesn't seem to want to talk too much about his glamorous life, instead asking Phil about his. Phil gives him the short version: After Clint was scouted and taken to England by Manchester United’s youth team, Phil went to college and studied sports science, played on a few small-potato American teams before coming home to take care of his mom and then sticking around once she died, working at the local high school as the gym teacher and girls' soccer coach. Clint ended up at Chelsea FC, the first American player to really impress in Europe, a heartthrob millionaire with legions of adoring fans. Hard to believe they started out in pretty much the same boat.

 

Clint eats up the tales of student exploits, and Phil beams with pride when he talks about his team, about how they came third in the state last season and despite their dismal showing today he’s hoping they’ll do at least as well this year. 

 

Conversation turns from careers to relationships and Phil tells Clint of the few he’s had smattered throughout the preceding story, about how he’s pretty quiet about being gay at the school though surprisingly few of the students get on his back about it, and usually only if they are going through things themselves anyway. He’s a well-liked teacher among the staff and the students, and while he had some dreams of living the life Clint’s living now, he’s happy where he is, the life he’s chosen to lead. Or perhaps the life that chose him.

 

Clint says he envies Phil, which seems laughable when there’s a ridiculous car sitting outside and the watch on his wrist is worth more than Phil’s yearly salary. But he insists, and Phil doesn’t argue. He has Clint tell him about the best games he’s had though, the last minute game-winning goals and physics-defying penalties. Clint talks about it all expressively, with hand gestures and imitations of the roar of the crowds, and Phil happily drinks it in. He thinks back to soccer camp, to Clint and he watching the World Cup from outside this very bar, where the old manager would put the TV in the window for them to watch the satellite feed of Brazil thrashing just about everyone. 

 

“What about you,” Phil asks eventually. “You got yourself a WAG yet?” 

 

Clint snorts. “Nah. It’s hard, you know?” 

 

Phil leans in, since Clint’s lowered his voice, and he’s been wondering about this the entire evening. “The team knows. I mean, everyone in my life knows, really. But I don’t wanna be the first gay footballer.” He looks at his thumb picking at the edge of the label on his mostly-empty bottle. “And it’s not really fair to expect...” He looks at Phil and smiles ruefully. “Can’t really date me secretly, you know?” 

 

Phil sighs. “Is it wearing?” 

 

“God, yes. But I’m used to it. It’s just a part of my life.”

 

“You want another beer?” asks Phil, and Clint looks bright again, the difficult subject forgotten. 

 

“Sure.”

 

Conversation turns back to recapping Clint’s glory days and Phil happily telling him more about his team. Clint promises to come say hi to them tomorrow at the game and Phil can’t wait for the girls to hear about that. 

 

Two beers down and Phil’s not sure what to say. It’s felt an awful lot like a date, and he wants to ask Clint if he wants to come back for coffee, though he’s nowhere near drunk enough to be able to ask him. But Clint looks out the window and tips his head to one side, asking if he can come over and see how the house has changed without making eye contact. Phil almost blushes but tries to play it cool, shrugging ‘sure’ and then trying not to fidget on the way home. On the one hand he can’t believe he’s doing this, on his way to a one night stand with an incredibly famous sports star. On the other, it almost feels like another day after practice all those years ago, Clint tapping on the steering wheel as he waits at a stoplight on the way back to Phil’s. 

 

Phil’s not sure how to play it when they get in, laughing when Clint kicks his shoes off like Phil's mom used to yell at him for. It’s not til Phil shows him his old room, still with the posters of Steve Rogers and the rest of the sports memorabilia he’s never wanted to take down, that Clint takes his hand. 

 

Phil’s heart is in his mouth when Clint softly says, “This is where we made out the first time.” 

 

He looks up as if to say something else and Phil leans in and kisses him. He was expecting it, Phil thinks, as Clint winds his hands around Phil's waist immediately and kisses back with no trace of hesitation. He pushes Phil back against the wall, a tattered poster of Bucky Barnes rumpling behind Phil’s head as they keep kissing, Clint’s head angled as he explores Phil’s mouth with an eager tongue. 

 

When they break apart, they’re both out of breath, and Clint leans his forehead against Phil’s and pants for a minute. “Is this ok?” he asks, and when he leans far enough back, Phil nods his head and laughs. 

 

“Of course it is,” he says, and they grin at each other and kiss some more. Clint works his way under Phil’s shirt, and there’s nothing under there to match Clint, Phil knows that much without even having to touch, but Clint gasps anyway as he rediscovers Phil’s skin, pulling at him Phil lifts the shirt over his head. Clint kisses his way across Phil’s chest then, and Phil’s lost to it, can’t believe any of this is real.

 

Clint stalls, and Phil realises he’s just been standing there letting Clint worship his less than phenomenal body, so he gets back into it too, getting his hands on the skin and the muscles he’s watched on countless TV screens, smooth and taut, and when he gets Clint’s shirt off, there’s tattoos he knew about but has never seen in the flesh before now. Clint laughs when Phil falters over them, the grand eagle flying over his pectoral muscle, the elaborate geometric pattern that flows down one arm. 

 

“They’re beautiful,” Phil promises. Clint huffs and presses himself against Phil, like he’s trying to make the words real, make them manifest into reality. Phil pushes him back til they’re looking at each other, both of them with tented pants and shirtless. “What do you want?” he asks, and Clint bites his lip before answering.

 

“Fuck me?” he asks, like it’s a favour, like Phil might say _no_.  But Phil doesn’t say anything, just nods and pulls him out of the room, into the one room he’s remodelled. 

 

Clint breaks off once they’ve crashed onto the bed. “Making out in your mom’s bed? Really?”

 

Phil rolls them so he’s looming over Clint and twists a nipple til Clint’s laughing and squirming. “It’s my bed now,” he says as he runs his hands down Clint’s ribs and marvels at the neat bunch of muscles beneath his skin. “I bought it.” 

 

Clint’s face slowly creases into a delighted grin, like he’s just said something hilarious and clever, and they wrestle with each other, tickling and teasing til they’re both laughing and panting and mostly naked. 

 

“You really want me to?” Phil asks, when they’re lying face to face on top of the covers. 

 

Clint nods fervently. “If you do.” 

 

Phil runs his hands down Clint’s legs - his thighs are just ridiculous, thickly muscled and perfect, more tattoos on one that he wants to know more about, that he hasn’t seen before. It’s usually hidden beneath the silky blue shorts Clint wears when he plays, the shorts that Phil’s thought about pretty frequently since his last boyfriend moved back to Portland. Clint's cock juts up between them, the same as it was all those years ago, and Phil coughs out a tiny laugh before kissing the base of it and then sucking the head. 

 

Clint writhes underneath him, crying out as Phil does his thing. It’s been awhile since Phil’s had the opportunity to do this for anyone, and he relishes it, glad of the intervening years and the chance to show Clint his improvement. He happily sucks Clint’s cock for a while before pulling away, leaving Clint on the bed to gasp and complain while Phil finds a condom and some lube, hidden in the very back of the drawer out of some sort of guilty habit. 

 

Clint reacts as much to Phil slicking him and opening him up as he did to the blowjob, like he hasn’t been touched this way in a long time. Phil doesn’t ask. This is a one time thing, he’s well aware of that and he doesn’t want to taint it. When he tears open the condom, Clint leans up on those beautiful forearms of his and reaches out. “Let me?” 

 

Phil hands it over and Clint moves so he can suck on Phil’s dick for a while, like he’s hungry for it. When Phil rests a hand on his head like he had the first time they’d done this, Clint moans, the throaty sound vibrating through Phil's cock. Clint pulls off and kisses the very tip before rolling on the condom, drinking in the sight of it before laying back down. 

 

“Ok?” Phil asks, and Clint nods, bites his lip and hitches up his legs, arching back on the bed as Phil slowly, carefully pushes into him. 

 

He’s beautiful. More beautiful than Phil remembers. Open and vulnerable in a way Phil suspects he isn’t often. There’s a desperation about it, like this is their one chance and it’s now or never. As if Clint’s leaving for England tomorrow and they’ll never see each other again, which isn’t far from the truth. 

 

He’s tight, and Phil says so. Clint grins and hides his face like he’s embarrassed, til Phil gently pulls his hands away and kisses them, holds on as he thrusts back and forth. Clint’s cock stands thick between them and it’s not long, embarrassingly fast for the both of them really, before Phil’s rubbing Clint to completion and coming himself, collapsing over him as he fills the condom, kissing Clint’s neck and face and mouth as he rides through it, Clint holding on so tightly Phil’s sure there’ll be marks on his back come tomorrow. 

 

They lay there, panting, the room coming back to stillness as they settle. Clint makes the sweetest little sound when Phil pulls out, watching him with bright eyes as he ties off the condom and tosses it away. He brings over tissues to clean Clint up, and Clint lies there, twitching and oversensitive as Phil blots up the semen smeared over both their bellies. 

 

They stay there on the bed for a while after that, fucked out and exhausted, but in the very best, most perfect way. Clint curls himself around Phil and won’t look at him properly, hiding his face against Phil’s chest til Phil almost has to push him off to get a good look at him. 

 

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks, and Clint shakes his head. They fall back into silence for a while before Clint speaks up.

 

“It’s been a long time,” he says quietly.

 

“I hope I didn’t disappoint,” Phil replies, and it’s a joke but Clint shakes his head and presses his face back into Phil’s chest. He seems so young all of a sudden, and it makes Phil feel young too, holding onto Clint as Clint collects himself. When Clint takes a deep breath and sits up, he’s back to normal, or as normal as he seems now, this new version of himself. 

 

“I should get going,” he says, looking for his clothes. 

 

Phil says he can stay, and means it, but it was obvious what this was when it started, even when Clint emailed him in the first place. 

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Clint says, kissing Phil on the cheek before he goes, leaving Phil on the front step, arms crossed against the chill, watching the ridiculous little sports car disappear into the night.

 

-

 

The air is chilly and the clouds promise rain again as the yellow school bus drives them into the city. The girls are varying degrees of excited: Janet and Maria are going over who they hope will play and what the score might be. America sits at the back listening to her ipod, staring out at the grey skyline of the city they’re approaching, as Kate gossips with Nikki about whatever it is that’s worth gossiping over this week. 

 

Phil tries not to check his phone too much as he sits next to Bruce, the head of geography, who is catching up on some pretty tedious looking geology marking. There aren’t any messages, and he’s not sure why he let himself think there might be. It was a one night stand, nothing more. Part of him’s excited about it, that yeah, he had _casual sex_ and it didn’t even mean anything! Not to mention the celebrity element to it. But at the same time he knows that it was more than that for him; it was a neat bookend to something that started when he and Clint were the age the girls on the bus are now. 

 

When they get to the stadium, a man’s waiting for them. Phil assumes it’s just a school-group thing, but after he’s checked their tickets he leads them through a maze of corridors and stairwells, not to their places high up in the nosebleed seats, but to a box right behind one of the goals. The man, whose namebadge says Henry, grins and says it’s all taken care of and for them to enjoy the game before handing over laminated passes and souvenir programs and disappearing.

 

The girls rush in amidst whoops and hollers and start eating the great big buffet and fighting over which of the plush seats they want to take. Phil’s shocked. He’s been to a few games in his time, spent some time in Europe after finishing his degree, but never experienced any of this sort of lavish luxury. He texts a simple ‘ _thank you,_ ’ to Clint and doesn’t expect a reply, but after a minute he gets, _‘I’ll try to come say hi at half time’_.

 

“Coach Coulson, did you know about this?” asks Hill, chewing on a chicken tender and staring at him intently. 

 

“No,” he replies. “I had no idea.” A grin forces its way onto his face, and not all of it is that they all get to watch a game like this. He’s happy for the group, for him and for Bruce who only has a passing interest in soccer and is mostly here as a favour to Phil, but something inside him warms to the notion that Clint _thought of him._ That Clint went out of his way to do this for a group of people he doesn’t even know, just because of Phil. 

 

-

 

The game is brilliant. It’s showy and loud and there are cheerleaders for some reason, but the crowd (made up of die-hard away fans, curious tourists and local anglophiles) eat it up. Clint comes up at half-time, which is pretty amazing for a number of reasons, and the girls go crazy. 

 

Phil feels like he’s blushing when Clint pulls him in for a hug, and then Clint shakes Bruce’s hand and the girls all gawp at them. 

 

“Do you... _know_ Coach Coulson?” Maria asks, and Phil really does blush then, a happy grin plastered on his face. 

 

“Know him? He taught me pretty much everything I know,” Clint lies, and Phil rolls his eyes fondly. “Nah, we went to soccer camp together.” 

 

“Are you serious?!” Janet yelps, and then they plague him with questions and autograph requests before he has to leave. On the way out, with a bodyguard solemnly holding the door for him, Phil catches Clint's arm and the bodyguard flinches.

 

“Thank you, by the way. I assume it was you who organised this?” 

 

Clint smiles like it’s nothing. “Oh, I just,” he shrugs and doesn’t finish his sentence, smiling instead.

 

“Oh my god!!!” yells one of the girls as the door closes behind Clint. “This is the greatest day of my _life!_ ” 

 

_-_

 

The second half goes well, Clint’s team stretching their lead by another goal til their opponents tie with them in the 85th minute. It’s an exciting game and would be even if Phil was watching it through the window of O’Malley’s. 

 

But then, disaster strikes. 

 

Clint jumps to header the ball away from goal. He shouldn’t even be in the defending half but it’s right down to the wire in the 90th minute. A goal now would finish the game. As he jumps, not one but two other players jump at the same time, all of them aiming for the same space. The ball flies off for a corner for the opposition, but as they all hit the apex of their jumps, they crash into one another and fall as one mass of limbs.

 

The first one stands and pulls up the second, but Clint’s still lying on the ground not moving. The giant video screens zoom in on him where he’s lying, his forehead pressed against the grass and his leg angled... wrongly. 

 

Paramedics run out to him and the fact that they don’t even move him onto a stretcher right away is worrying enough, but then Clint moves his head and he’s saying something to the medics which Phil can’t make out and his face is drawn like he’s in unspeakable pain. More medics run out and pack his leg before they lift him onto the stretcher and carry him off. 

 

The room - and the stadium - is silent. Players left on the field mill about before the referee calls for added injury time of five minutes. But the wind has left the players’ sails. Watching any player break a leg, which is what it looks like just happened, has to have jarred them all pretty badly. 

 

The game is a draw.

 

-

 

As people filter out of the stadium, the crowd is a little ashen faced. The drive back is subdued, with everyone checking their phones for news of what exactly happened. All that seems to be coming through is that Clint has been taken to the hospital and is in stable condition. That’s all any of the news sources are saying, though twitter is rife with speculations that make Phil feel a little queasy. 

 

He shoots off a text without much hope of getting a reply. 

 

_Hope you’re ok._

 

It feels pretty perfunctory. He types and then deletes an _‘x’_ twice before sending it, shaking his head at how high-school he feels.

 

As if on cue, when they get back to the school, the heavens open once again. 

 

-

 

Phil’s just settled into bed and is laying there looking at the pattern of reflected rain on the ceiling when there’s a noise in the kitchen. He bolts upright and sneaks down the hallway. When he gets to the kitchen doorway, there’s the silhouette of someone trying to jimmy the kitchen door open. Phil flicks on the light and whoever it is stops but instead of running away, the shadow remains, and lightly taps on the glass. 

 

“Can you let me in? It’s Clint.” 

 

With a mixture of relief, excitement and mostly confusion, Phil unlocks the door and a dripping Clint Barton, wearing a mess of soccer gear, hospital gown and a great big cast on one leg, hobbles in on crutches. 

 

“Jesus Christ.”

 

“Nah,” Clint says, mouth twisted in something approaching a smirk. “Just me.”

 

“You scared the crap out of me,” Phil says, and only then does he realise that the thing he’d grabbed on his way to the kitchen was a pillow. Clint looks at it and grins, water dripping down his face. 

 

“Good thing you didn’t pillow me to death.”

 

Phil ignores him and ushers him into the living room, settling him on the couch and then just staring. 

 

“What the hell happened? Why are you here? You need to be at the hospital! Is your leg broken? How did you get here?” He starts pacing the floor and runs his hands through his hair. Clint waits til he stops and turns to him to explain.

 

“Yeah my leg’s broken. I got a cab.” He looks at the floor for a second before moving to stand up again. “I should go. This was stupid. Sorry.” 

 

“What?! No, Clint. Just. Stay there, ok?” 

 

Phil runs to the bathroom for some towels and grabs the duvet out of the spare room before taking the pillow he left in the kitchen and coming back. He tosses the towels at Clint and settles the rest on the arm of the chair. 

 

“I’m sorry, I just. Hospitals, man.”

 

“Clint, you need doctors, drugs...”

 

“You did physio in college,” Clint says. He stops towelling off his hair to reach into the pocket of the soggy hospital-issue terrycloth robe he’s wearing, pulling out a handful of vials of liquid, syringes and pills that he dumps unceremoniously on the coffee table. 

 

“Clint! What the fuck?!” 

 

“It’s stuff from the hospital! It’s the same as what they gave me before.” 

 

A vial of something rolls off of the table and under the couch and Phil shakes his head. “I don’t. I can’t. I have no idea what your dosages are, or, or, any of this! Are you out of your mind? I’m not a doctor!” 

 

“No, look!” Clint pulls out a couple more bottles and then finds what he was looking for: a piece of paper that looks like medical notes. He unfolds it and then points at it. “See! You just. It’s all there. And you can do it.” 

 

“You’re whacked outta your mind,” Phil says, half under his breath, and Clint huffs. 

 

“Please, Phil? I can... I can pay you.” 

 

Phil stops pacing again and looks at the man lying on his couch. 

 

“Please don’t make me go back there.”

 

He should call an ambulance, or the cops, even. But Clint’s looking at him with the same face he used to have when he’d sneak in Phil’s window before Phil's mom made him move in with them properly. Defensive and guarded but so utterly vulnerable at the same time. 

 

“Give me that,” Phil says, tugging the notes out of Clint’s hand. 

 

-

 

Phil has Clint call the hospital and explain, telling them that he has medical care and, presumably because he is who he is, they believe him. Phil makes him call his management too, and can hear someone yelling through the phone at him from across the room. Clint nods and apologises and agrees to things, and once he’s put the phone down, says someone will be here in the morning. 

 

It’s a relief til the morning arrives, bringing a very patient doctor who checks Clint over, talks with him for a while and then _leaves_. 

 

Once he’s gone, Clint smiles beatifically. There are tidy rows of bottles and syringes on the table next to a pad of paper with neatly written instructions, dosages and handy tips in the margins. 

 

Phil blinks and looks at the resoundingly closed door and back to Clint, still propped on the couch where Phil left him. 

 

“I have a job.”

 

“I won’t be any trouble,” Clint promises. “And I called the bank and set up a thing. Doctor Alvarez gave me all the stuff and the instructions, so I can just, like, hang in the spare room?”

 

Phil shakes his head and tries to work out what to tackle first. 

 

“Don’t you have a home in England?” 

 

Clint’s face falls. “Yeah. But I can’t fly cause of the pressure.”

 

“The pressure?” 

 

“Yeah, the air pressure. It compacts the bone marrow or something.” 

 

Phil knows he’s lying, and he can tell Clint knows it. He should be angry, and a small part of him is, at being so taken for granted, but a larger part of him is... glad. 

 

-

 

It takes until the afternoon for Clint absconding from the hospital to hit the headlines, with his PR manager holding a press conference in London to say Clint’s taking time out to recover in his home country with family. Phil doesn’t know if that was something the PR people cooked up or it was Clint’s idea, but either way, it makes him feel a little warm inside to be referred to as family like that. 

 

He sets Clint up in the spare room, and isn’t quite sure if kissing him goodnight on the forehead is too much or too weirdly paternal, opting for an awkward pat on the arm instead. 

 

Clint catches his arm as he pulls away. “Not even a good night kiss?” 

 

Phil studies the lightswitch intently. “I wasn’t sure if... you. If that was...”

 

“It’s bad enough you’re making me sleep in the spare room.” 

 

He tugs at Phil’s wrist and Phil gives in to it, moving where Clint pulls him. It shouldn’t, considering what they did just two nights ago, feel weird, but it feels like it means something. It’s not hard or demanding or with any purpose beyond connection, and when Phil pulls away he feels more of that warm feeling again.

 

-

 

When Phil wakes up, he’s forgotten that Clint’s even there til he pads into the living room and sees the rows of drugs on the kitchen counter. He flips on the coffee machine and then opens the front door to grab the paper. 

 

As the door opens, Phil’s suddenly blinded with flashing lights. Blinking, he takes in dozens of people swarming towards him on his front lawn before closing the door again and blinking some more. 

 

When Clint wakes up to Phil’s concerned prodding, he eases off the bed and peers out of the window before cursing and pulling the curtains closed. “God fucking dammit are you kidding me? Did they see you? Shit, Phil, I’m so sorry.” 

 

“It’s ok,” Phil assures him, though he’s not sure what’s happening exactly. “Uh, will you be ok here? I have to go to work in an hour.” 

 

Clint yawns and scratches his belly. “Sure, I’ll be fine. Can you help me wrap this up-” he taps his cast “-before you go? So I can take a shower.” 

 

“Yeah,” Phil says. Clint reaches for him and pulls him close to slide his hands under Phil’s shirt and kiss his neck. It’s a welcome distraction from all the strangers milling around outside, but he can hear the coffee bubbling away and remembers how he has to go do his job and all. He laughs and pulls away, privately pleased at the little sound of protest Clint makes. 

 

“I have work,” he reminds Clint, and it feels so gloriously domestic and... normal. Like Clint’s just come and slotted back into his life. It’s a little scary how easy it feels, and Phil smiles sadly before going to the kitchen and making breakfast.

 

-

 

Phil in his underwear is all over TMZ by the time he makes it into work. Phil doesn’t know it til Darcy pulls him into her office and turns her screen to him. There he is, looking bewildered and bedraggled in his doorway with a headline saying, “Who IS This Man?” 

 

The article goes on to say that the house is where Clint Barton is presumed to be staying. How they got that idea, Phil’s not sure, but it’s jarring and weird and he feels exposed. 

 

“Is it true?” asks Darcy, clutching a mug of coffee and huffing on it to cool it down. 

 

He’s not sure quite how to put it. Old friends is technically correct. Ex-lovers. Current lovers? He’s not about to say that, but... ‘he lived with my family for a while when we were kids’ is almost too much the opposite of that. Clint has secrets on top of secrets squirrelled away, and Phil's not sure how much of that whole saga Clint wants anyone to know. 

 

“We’re old friends,” Phil decides. 

 

Darcy looks at him and slowly smiles. “You’re such a dark horse, Phil.” 

 

Phil snorts and rolls his eyes, thankful for the brief moment of levity as Darcy nudges him with her hip and grins. 

 

-

 

It’s a very long day. The ‘news’ runs through the school like wildfire, and all Phil can answer to the myriad questions is that he and Clint are old friends. He has no answers for why Clint’s at his house because he’s not entirely sure himself. He escapes to his office before lunch and then has a mid-afternoon gym class of rowdy fourteen year olds who plague him with more questions til he decides to teach them meditation just to make the questions stop. 

 

By the time he pulls into his driveway, Phil’s ready to drop on the couch, order takeout and not move for the rest of the evening. 

 

There are footprints all over the wet lawn and it looks like the daffodils in the front flowerbed have been trampled, though the reporters and vans with satellite dishes are gone now, which is a blessed relief. They must have found some other hapless person’s flowers to go stand on. Phil keys open the door and isn’t sure what he expects to find when he opens it, but it certainly isn’t this.

 

The dinner table has a _tablecloth_ on it. There are daffodils in a vase in the middle, two place settings laid out and what smells like a roast filling his nostrils as he takes it all in. Clint’s sleeping on the couch, one arm dangling off of the edge of it, his chest lightly rising and falling with cute little grunty snores. 

 

Phil’s heart seizes with both affection and concern at just how _much_ this seems, how grand it feels, and he sets his keys on the kitchen counter as silently as he can, bending down to see a chicken roasting in the oven and the timer set to go off in half an hour. 

 

It’s almost panic inducing. Too jarring and weird but at the same time beguiling. It feels like he’s been wrapped in a blanket of _home_ , and he can’t tell if it’s just because someone else is here or if it’s Clint in particular that makes it feel so different. It’s different but it’s good, and it’s so good that it’s scary. Because Clint is... Phil doesn’t know what Clint is. 

 

He stands in the kitchen for a while too long, looking at Clint and unable to decide what to do with himself. In the end he sits in the armchair and reads the newspaper, not wanting to turn on the TV for fear of waking Clint. 

 

They both start when the timer on the oven beeps, Clint flailing and almost falling off the couch. “Hey!” he says when he realises Phil’s there, and he starts to reach for his crutches. Phil takes advantage of his non-broken legs and gets there first, turning the oven off and taking out the chicken, sticking a skewer into it to see if it’s done. He can see Clint watching him.

 

“Did my mom teach you how to do this?” 

 

Clint gets up and makes his way over. “Of course.” He stands really close under the guise of looking over Phil’s shoulder to check the juices are running clear. He presses a kiss to Phil’s cheek and stays there as Phil turns to look at him. 

 

“You alright there?” he asks. Clint moves backwards and smiles, aware that he’s maybe going a little overboard and Phil smiles awkwardly, the odd moment not what it possibly could have been. 

 

“I set the table,” Clint says, standing on his good foot so he can use a hand to root through a drawer for some matches. “I hope you don’t mind.”

 

Phil pulls out plates and looks in the fridge for something to drink. There’s a couple of beers, but he’s conscious of Clint being on a cocktail of drugs as it is, so he gets them some ice water instead. “I don’t mind. This is nice to come home to, I have to say, but you didn’t need to do all this.” 

 

Clint shrugs with his back turned, shaking his hand to extinguish the match. “Especially the candles,” Phil adds. 

 

“I just wanted to do something nice for you. You gotta eat,” Clint says, setting his crutches to one side of the table as he sits down in a chair. 

 

“Well I appreciate it,” Phil assures him, and it hasn’t been very long but he decides to carve already, cause he’s hungry and this is weird. 

 

“No, you gotta let it sit!” Clint says as Phil hefts the carving knife, and Phil looks at him in surprise. “It’s gotta rest. Keeps it moist.” 

 

Phil steps out of the kitchen and sits opposite Clint, who rolls his eyes at the way Phil’s unable to hide how charmed and amused he is. “I cook sometimes,” Clint says, as if daring Phil to mock him. “What?”

 

“Nothing! I’m impressed.” 

 

“I made some roast vegetables but I don’t really know how to do all the other stuff.” 

 

“It looks fine. Thank you.” Phil laughs as he realises: “I can’t actually remember the last time I had roast chicken.” 

 

The space between Clint's eyebrows wrinkles. “Really?” 

 

Phil shrugs. Clint knows his story from the other night: he lives alone, no one to please but himself for quite a while, and a roast for one is kind of depressing. 

 

“So,” Clint says, pushing the cutlery beside his plate up the table with his finger. “How was work?” 

 

Phil can’t help his sardonic laugh. “Are you kidding?” 

 

Clint grins. “You know, I was going to wear a frilly apron but I couldn’t find one. Go maximum 50s housewife on you.” 

 

Phil huffs. “It was pretty bad. Everyone knows you’re here and they either want to know why or how I know you. Mostly both. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I just said we’re old friends.” He swallows a little water before meeting Clint’s eye, worried that the half-truth he’s been telling all day is the wrong one. But Clint is smiling, albeit a little sadly.

 

“I’m sorry,” Phil says.

 

“No! God. Don’t apologise. I didn’t even think about how much of a mess I’d make of your life when I came here. I’m so sorry for fucking stuff up for you. I never... I just wanted to see you.”

 

There’s that blossom of hopeful warmth that Phil’s so vulnerable to. He tries to ignore it, but Clint reaches a hand out to grab his across the table. “I’m really glad I got to see you some more.”

 

Phil studies the hand around his for a second before pulling away, standing to go back to the kitchen and dish up. 

 

“I can go,” Clint says to his back, and Phil’s shaking his head before really knowing he’s doing it. 

 

“No, don’t... look, you’re good to stay as long as you want. You know that. This is... it’s as much your home as it is mine. But don’t you have... people? Back home? Friends? A life?” Phil brings their two plates over and sits back down. 

 

“Sure I do,” Clint says, apparently not as hungry as Phil is, since he's just pushing a carrot around his plate. “And a team. A job. I have two dogs, you know. But my housekeeper’s taking care of them, and I can’t do anything for the team til I’m fixed, and... I just. It’s selfish, but I wanted to be around you for a while.”

 

Phil eats, and thinks as he does it. Clint eats some too, which shouldn’t make Phil feel pleased, but it does for some reason. 

 

“Why?” he asks eventually. “What do you get out of being here?”

 

The clatter of Clint’s fork as he drops it on his plate is jarring. “You know what I bought a year ago? I bought a $500,000 car, Phil. Me and some of the other guys just decided to get them one day and we bought them with cash. _Cash_! In one of those silver movie suitcases. I don’t even like the fucking thing! You know why? Cause I have four other ones just like it. Last month I bought a horse! I don’t even like horses, it just seemed like a good idea at the time. I don’t... none of it’s worth anything, Phil. None of it’s even real. I don’t want a giant house and five cars and a goddamn horse!” He stops, aware that he’s ranting and he picks up the fork again. Phil chews and swallows as Clint takes a deep breath. 

 

“You’re normal. You’re good. You’re a nice, normal, good person. But you get me. You’ve always gotten me. And I missed you, and then I came here and you’re still as good a person as you always were and I’ve just turned into this,” he gestures at himself with the fork, “this caricature! And then my leg... and then the hospital, and all I wanted was more of you. More of this place.” 

 

He’s done explaining, and he shovels food into his mouth like he did the first time Phil’s mom made him eat with them, like it’s not even touching the sides. 

 

“What about when you get better?” is all Phil can really ask, barely digesting much else from Clint’s speech yet. 

 

Clint huffs and shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know. I’ll go back I guess. Maybe I’ll retire. I don’t... what do you think I should do?” 

 

Phil stares at him in disbelief. “You don’t like playing anymore?” 

 

“I _love_ playing,” Clint says. “And practicing and working out and being... doing my job. But all the other shit. A game is only 90 minutes but the rest of it is all the time. There are photographers outside my gate 24/7. Like, they actually live in their vans outside my gate. But I want... I want a relationship that’s more than one night long. I wanna be able to come home and have more than my housekeeper and my dogs there. I want. I just. I’m just really unhappy is all, I guess.” 

 

Phil should be angry. Clint has essentially just told him that he wants to use him for some sort of vacation from hedonism. That he’s boring and vanilla and Clint wants him because of just how boring and vanilla he is. But he’s not angry. 

 

“You think I can make you happy?” 

 

“You always made me happy.” 

 

The anger Phil doesn’t feel filters into sadness, adding a bitter twist to his words. “So why didn’t you ever... write?! Or call! Or anything!” 

 

“Cause I didn’t think you’d want me to! I knew you were bitter about me getting scouted and I didn’t think you’d want me to rub it in your face.” 

 

“But I said-” 

 

“I _know_ ,” Clint interrupts. “But I didn’t call or write for a while and then a while turned into a long time and then it was years and it seemed too long. And then when I knew we were coming here, I thought I’d see if you’d ordered tickets cause I figured if you still lived here you would and you had, so I stole your email address and,” he shrugs again, but he’s smiling a little, and Phil resists doing the same at the memory of that night.  

 

“Look, I didn’t think about it. I don’t usually think about anything. But I think about you.” 

 

Phil considers the shape Clint cuts in his vision: the clean slope of his shoulders, the tilt of his head to one side, and even like this, dejected and sad, he fits here somehow. He feels right in this space, as if he’s as much a part of the house as the tablecloth or the candlesticks. 

 

“I think about you,” he admits, putting his hand back on the table where Clint grabbed it before. “I thought you’d forgotten all about me.” 

 

Clint narrows his eyes. “I could never forget about you. God, Phil. Do you even _know_?” 

 

“Know what?” 

 

“I was so in love with you.”

 

“I knew.” 

 

“No, but for a long time.” He grips Phil’s hand. “I don’t think I ever really stopped. Not completely. And then the other night it all came back to me, and it was like, ‘this! this is the thing I’ve been missing!’ I want to be... something to you again.” 

 

“Ok,” Phil says, and Clint’s eyes when he looks at Phil are huge and blue. Phil smiles a little, his heart making his words catch in his throat. “I’d like to be something to you too.” 

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah.” Phil nods like he’s trying to convince himself that this is the right course of action. He lifts his glass, and when it’s clear he’s waiting, Clint lifts his own and they clink them together. “Somethings?” Phil says. 

 

“Somethings,” Clint agrees. 

 

-

 

When Phil’s just bunching up the blankets around him and preparing to turn off the light, Clint’s suddenly hovering at the door. 

 

“You have a broken leg, Clint.”

 

“Don’t act like you don’t want me to suck your dick,” Clint replies defiantly. It’s a bit much considering the heartfelt confessions earlier, but Phil’s only human. Clint catches on to his reluctance to say good night and comes in, neatly resting his crutches against the wall by the other side of the bed. 

 

“Clint,” Phil says, but it goes ignored as Clint climbs into the bed and looks at him, his hands folded over the blankets. 

 

Phil’s about to say something but Clint presses a finger to his lips before he does. Phil frowns instead. “Let’s just make out for a bit. And then I’ll go back to my own bed and let you sleep.”

They both know it's a blatant lie, so Phil rolls his eyes and Clint replaces his finger with his lips.

 

They make out for a while, the light low enough that it’s languid and relaxing, though the erection Phil feels pressing into his thigh is anything but. Phil’s just as hard as Clint, so when Clint disappears under the sheets and engulfs Phil in warmth and wetness, he sleepily rolls his hips and comes pretty quickly. Clint’s smirking when he reappears, wiping his mouth. “I got come on like, the end of your bed. Cause I jerked off.” 

 

Phil laughs. “That’s ok.” 

 

“I’ll wash ‘em tomorrow,” he promises, and Phil’s sliding towards sleep because it’s been such a long day and there’s so much to think about, most of which is _this_ , but right now all he wants to do is pull Clint close and fall asleep with him in his arms. So that’s what he does.

 

-

 

If you’d have told Phil a month ago that he’d get used to coming home to Clint Barton’s cooking endeavours (some more successful than others as he goes through Phil’s mom’s recipe folder), he’d never have believed you. But here he is, driving up the street to his house (no reporters today, since the story of Clint Barton has pretty much run out of steam as he’s laid up with his still broken leg) and feeling light in his heart as he unlocks the door. The sweet smell of some sort of baking meets his nostrils as he enters, and Clint’s singing from the kitchen greets his ears.

 

Phil keeps telling himself not to get too used to this, but it’s really hard when it’s so _nice_. 

 

“Hi,” Phil says as he shucks off his coat and shoes, and Clint appears with a dishrag thrown over his shoulder and a grin the size of Massachusetts. He’s still using crutches, so Phil meets him halfway for a kiss, chasing the taste of something sweet on Clint’s lips as he pulls away. “What is that?” 

 

“Come see!” Clint hobbles back to the kitchen with Phil in tow, who waits there as Clint opens the oven and pulls out a fresh tray of cookies. He grins at Phil, looking as proud as ever, and Phil leans in for another kiss. 

 

“I love coming home to you,” he tells Clint, and he can’t even bring himself to mind letting the words slip. They’re true, after all. 

 

-

 

Clint helps out with the team a little, offering Phil his thoughts on what he brings home with him and then, wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses as a disguise (which everyone manages to instantly see through, since it’s pretty much only family that show up to home games) he comes to watch the girls play. Thereafter, he has a better idea on who the players are, and his quiet whispers into Phil’s ear take on more heat as he champions Kate Bishop for captain when they’re holed up in Phil’s office.

 

“If I ever let her know that Clint Barton said that, I’d have a riot on my hands.”

 

Clint grins. “Why?” 

 

“She and America Chavez - the current captain? Hate each other.”

 

Clint perches on the edge of Phil’s desk and wrinkles his nose. “No way. They don’t hate each other.”

 

“Pretty sure they do,” Phil insists. He’s seen them at each other's throats countless times. There’s no love lost there. 

 

“If you say so.” 

 

Clint looks pretty smug about his assessment, and he hams it up till Phil wipes his smirk off his face with a kiss. He can’t believe he actually has Clint _here_ , in his humble little office. Clint breaks off the kiss (which is just as well - they can’t get too carried away, it is a school after all, even if the door’s locked) and laughs. 

 

“Is that…” He holds up the coin that Phil uses at the start of every game and raises his eyebrows. “You still have this?” 

 

Phil ducks his head and tries not to blush. There’s nothing to signify that it’s special, but it is the same one Clint gave him years ago. Clint tips Phil’s face to kiss him again. “Knew you still liked me,” he whispers.

 

-

 

Phil makes sure Clint goes to the doctor, of course, taking him to his follow-up x-rays and checkups. Clint had always been a little wary of doctors way back when they first met, when he’d been on the run and then homeless. “I always feel like they’re gonna report me to someone,” he confesses one day, driving home from a physio session. “Don’t like someone having power over me like that.” 

 

Phil doesn’t say anything, just pats him on his good knee and keeps on driving.

 

They do a lot of not talking, those first few weeks, with Clint shrugging and assuring Phil that everything’s fine, the team just want him better, his dogs are great at home, and Phil quietly accepts his half-truths because as selfish as it is, he loves having Clint here with him. Having someone in his space all the time is something he’s missed. 

 

The sex is great too, of course, which goes no small way to quashing Phil’s resolve to talk about this seriously. 

 

-

 

Domestic bliss reigns for another few weeks before things come to a head. 

 

Clint’s made these little tube shaped cracker things filled with brandy cream, and Phil watches him eat three of them one after the other while they’re sitting on the couch watching sports. They’re delicious, but even back when they were kids, Clint was a stickler about eating right, because well, athletes’ bodies are their tools after all. 

 

Phil almost says something when Clint lifts another brandy snap to his lips, but he stops himself, which spurs Clint to huff loudly. “What?”

 

Phil bites his lips. “Nothing.” 

 

“You fucking sigh every time I eat, Phil! What is it? You think I’m getting fat?” 

 

Clint’s ab muscles _have_ been getting a little bit less defined, but that’s to be expected, considering he’s physically unable to do half the exercises he’d normally do, and he’s not playing football every day either. Phil does come home to him doing various exercises about the house or in the backyard sometimes, but more often than not he’s pottering about in the kitchen making things to eat. Not that Phil minds - he’s fond of the slight thickening of Clint’s waist under his hands. That probably has something to do with the concept of permanence -- Clint being here for the long term -- but Phil hasn't really let himself explore that train of thought too much.

 

“I’m just,” Phil shakes his head. “Do you even want to go back?” 

 

Clint pushes his plate away from him. “No.” 

 

“Clint.”

 

Clint won’t meet Phil’s eyes. “I wanna stay here. With you.” 

 

When he looks up and gives Phil his best puppydog eyes, Phil wants nothing more than to agree, tell him he can stay forever, but he can’t. It’s not fair to either of them, really. 

 

“But you love football.” 

 

“I love you,” Clint interrupts, and then they stare at each other in silence. 

 

Phil ought to say something like ‘no you don’t’, but all that comes out is, “really?” 

 

Clint tips his chin up in a show of defiance. “Yeah. Of course I do.” 

 

Phil looks away. “Are you sure it’s not just. Y’know.” he gestures to the room, himself, this small, domestic life. “Normalcy?” 

 

“You’re not normal,” Clint replies, and then he’s smiling, though it’s a little strained, a little too hopeful. 

 

Phil smiles wanly, but then he shakes his head again. “You can’t throw your career away for me. This. It’s not. That’s not fair to put all that on me. I can’t live up to that.” 

 

“It’s better here with you, though,” Clint says, and when Phil looks at him, he looks so sad, so earnest. “Even with the broken leg. This feel more real than anything in my life has for years.”

 

“What’ll you do when your leg is better?” 

 

They both look at Clint’s leg, propped on a cushion on the coffee table before them. “Help out at the school?” 

 

Phil huffs a laugh without thinking, but then realises Clint’s serious. “I don’t think the school could afford you.” 

 

“They don’t have to pay me. I have money.” 

 

Phil looks at him and Clint rolls his eyes. “Can we just watch TV and snuggle up and forget about the future for a while?” Clint asks, turning and then leaning his head on Phil’s shoulder. 

Phil sighs quietly and rests his head on top of Clint’s. He supposes the future can be forgotten for a little while longer.

 

-

 

Since Clint’s been out of the papers, Phil’s life at school has returned to its usual baseline of student grumbling and the hapless mediation of teenage drama. The team has been flourishing, perhaps because of Clint’s private advice, or more likely because the girls all work harder when they know a genuine soccer star is watching them play. Phil puts Kate in as captain for a couple of practice games, and surprisingly, instead of moping or getting pushy, America plays the best she ever has. That makes Clint insufferably smug about his advice, but not as smug as when Phil informs him that he found the pair of them kissing in the locker room. _That_ makes Clint toss his head back and cackle with glee. 

 

It’s a nice position to be in, if unusual, to have such a brilliant person serving as unofficial assistant coach to his high school soccer team, but Phil doesn’t mind it one bit. 

 

One day, he comes home to Clint cleaning the house, the whole place smelling like fresh lemons. “What’s the occasion?” he asks, sliding his arms around Clint’s waist from behind as Clint reaches up to run a feather duster over a shelf. A sliver of skin is exposed between the top of his lowslung jogging bottoms (jeans are too much of a trial to get over the cast) and the hem of his t-shirt, and Phil takes the opportunity to ghost his fingertips over it.

 

Clint hums appreciatively. “Hello,” he says, turning his head to kiss Phil on the cheek. “Just spring cleaning.” 

 

“You don’t have to do this you know,” Phil reminds him, which he does every few days or so, when Clint’s making dinner or vacuuming the floors. The novelty of playing house still hasn’t seemed to have worn off. 

 

“I like it,” he replies. “I like looking after you.” 

 

Phil lets go so that Clint, crutches and all, can turn to kiss him properly. Phil hasn’t needed looking after in a long time, but he can’t deny how nice it feels.

 

Phil cooks dinner for Clint for once, though since Clint moved in he’s pretty much rearranged the entire kitchen. Clint sits at the breakfast bar and watches him, chin in his hands like a lovesick kid. “Is this really better than watching TV or reading a book?”

 

“Yes,” Clint says immediately, grinning at Phil’s skeptical look. “The wooden spoons are in the pot over there.” He points to them and Phil huffs. 

 

-

 

Phil comes home the next day tired after a particularly trying meeting about budget cuts and how the already meagre soccer budget is likely to be slimmed down, as money gets reallocated ahead of the construction of a new baseball court. It’s nothing that Phil hadn’t been expecting but it’s still demoralising. If the girls can get to the League final (or god willing, actually win), he’ll have a much better case to argue for more money going into next year, but even then it’s a long shot. He sighs as he unlocks the door, pleased to be home to -

 

There are three people sitting in the living room, only one of whom is Clint Barton. 

 

“Hello?” asks Phil, putting his briefcase down where he usually does and shrugging off his jacket. The people who aren’t Clint stand and offer warm smiles. Phil wonders what the hell is going on. 

 

“Phil!” Clint cries, getting up slower than his guests did by virtue of his cast. “This is Annmarie Green and Mark Lopez,” he says, and they both shake Phil’s hand in turn as Clint continues. “We were just wrapping up. Unless you guys need anything else?” 

 

The woman - Annmarie - smiles warmly. “I think we have everything we need from you, and you have your documents. You’ll be in touch?” 

 

Clint nods sharply and smiles back, though it’s a professional sort of smile, one Phil hasn’t seen in the flesh before. “Yes, ma’am.” 

 

Annmarie titters a little and Phil catches Mark almost rolling his eyes. Clint’s been his usual charming self, then. With whoever these people are. 

 

They make their way out, with a ‘nice to meet you’ thrown in Phil’s direction before the door closes. As soon as they’re gone, Clint winces. “Sorry, we ran long.” 

 

Phil pulls him in for a hug. He has so many questions. “Who was that?”

 

Clint labours over to the coffee table to retrieve mugs and the detritus of what looks like cake and take it all awkwardly to the kitchen. “It was uh…” He begins. Phil toes off his shoes and then helps put things into the dishwasher. “Um…”

 

Phil watches Clint wipe down the spotlessly clean counter. “You don’t have to tell me.” 

 

“No!” Clint says suddenly. “No, I mean. I want to tell you! I just… uh, it’s… kinda big.” 

 

“Are you ok?” Phil asks. “Is it your leg?” 

 

“No, no, nothing like that. Leg’s healing fine. Uh. Can we go lay down?” 

 

Phil almost says something about trying to waylay important discussions with sex, which Clint’s done on more than one occasion, but Clint looks serious. Phil smiles and leans in for a kiss. “Alright.” 

 

Once they’re arranged on the bed, both of them lying on their side and looking at each other, Clint takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna transfer.” 

 

Phil’s brow wrinkles as he takes in the information. “What do you mean?” 

 

“From Chelsea. I’m gonna transfer to… The New York Red Bulls.” 

 

Phil laughs, because surely he’s not serious - Chelsea are one of the best teams in the world, and sure, American soccer is going up in the world but it’s hardly comparable to the various Leagues in Europe. Premier League players usually only transfer to the US when they’re old and out to pasture, and even with a broken leg, Clint shouldn’t need to do that for a good few years yet.

 

Clint grimaces and Phil realises he’s not kidding. He asks the only thing he can. “ _Why_?” 

 

“Not cause of you,” Clint replies, as though he’s expecting Phil to admonish him for that. “Well, not completely cause of you. I miss America, I miss playing for playing’s sake, I miss… I miss a lot of things. but it’s not just about the past - It’s time to move on, y’know? It probably sounds dumb but I’ve done it now, I achieved my dream. I play for a premiership team, it’s all I ever wanted. All I ever thought I wanted, anyway.” He stops and bites his bottom lip. “But I’m not happy there, and I’m happy here.” He looks at Phil with trepidation. “Do you think that’s stupid?” 

 

Phil shakes his head. “No, Clint, not at all. But it’s a lot to…” He doesn’t want to say ‘throw away’. “... give up. And what about your contract with Chelsea? They won’t want to see you go. Can New York afford you?” 

 

Clint slides his fingers under Phil’s palm on the mattress. “That’s why those people were here - it needs a lot of lawyering and stuff, but I could break my contract with Chelsea if I pay for it out of my own pocket. Then there’s no transfer fee or anything, I’m a free agent.” 

 

“Clint, that’s millions of...” 

 

Clint shrugs and then smiles. “Wasn’t doing anything with my money anyway.” 

 

Phil curls his fingers over Clint’s. “You’ve already made your mind up, haven’t you?” he asks, and Clint nods. “And what if I wasn’t here?”

 

“But you are here, Phil. You’re real and you’re good and you’re exactly what I want. What I need. And you want me, too, right?”

 

Phil smiles. “Of course I want you, Clint.”

 

“So it’s perfect.”

 

Clint’s smile grows along with Phil’s til they’re both grinning widely. “I love you,” Phil says softly, their faces side by side. Clint kisses him and smiles some more. 

 

“I love you too.” 

 

It seems pretty simple in those terms. 

 

-

 

Over the next few days, Phil listens to Clint on the phone with his various agents and teammates, explaining what he’s doing and why. The phone doesn’t stop ringing after the first day, til Clint puts it on silent and slumps back on the couch. “So many people to answer to.”

 

Phil leans over the back of the couch to kiss him on the top of the head. “I’m proud of you. I know you hate doing this, but it’s good of you to tell everyone in person.” 

 

Clint grunts in assent. “I wish I could go for a run. Stupid leg.” 

 

“We need to talk about something first.” 

 

“More talking?” Clint whines.

 

Phil ruffles his hair on the way around the couch to sit next to him. 

 

“So,” Phil says once they’ve arranged themselves. “You’re gay.” 

 

Clint snorts. “Shit, am I?”

 

Phil pokes him with a toe. “Yes. And so am I. How does that factor into this plan of yours?”

 

He’s heard the conversations Clint’s had, and he knows everyone that’s important in Clint’s life knows he’s with Phil in every sense of the word, but telling close friends and teammates isn’t the same as the national - and international - press knowing. 

 

“Well, I told the New York management guys, and I haven’t met the actual team yet but I’ll tell them.”

 

“But what about the press, Clint?” 

 

Clint takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “I’m gonna talk to my publicist - my agent’s already been after me about it for a while. It’s time to face the music, I guess.” 

 

Phil reaches out and holds Clint’s hand. “Whatever you need from me.” 

 

Clint pulls Phil’s hand up to his mouth for a kiss. “Thank you.”

 

-

 

The deal is all secretive and behind closed doors, generating as little publicity as possible - it’s hardly good press for a premiership club to have a player break their contract to go to a team barely anyone’s heard of. Clint’s on the phone a lot, and once everything’s set up, he flies back to England to sign the official papers. Phil keeps tabs on things online, and the fans clamouring for autographs don’t appear to have dwindled. 

 

Phil worries that Clint’ll change his mind once he’s there, but he stays for a week and then flies back with two tiny dogs and a handful of cardboard boxes. Almost everything else has been sold to pay for the contract. “It’s good to be home,” Clint says when Phil picks him up. 

 

Clint comes out via press release, giving a speech at a conference set up at his new club once all the paperwork is done. There are questions, some crueller than others, but Clint’s publicist - an excitable man named Tony Stark - steps in and fields them all with far more aplomb than Phil had at first given him credit for. Phil watches from the back of the room, blending in with the reporters and beaming with pride. 

 

When the girls at school hear about it they predictably lose all sense of propriety, clamouring to ask question after question about Clint. There’s no Stark at school to step in and neatly reroute things, so Phil ignores them as best he can. Clint showing up to afterschool practice doesn’t much help, though it does drive up attendance at their weekend games.

 

Tony’s good at warning off nosy journalists and photographers, so Phil’s daffodils don’t get trampled on again, though in lieu of that they end up with Tony coming over a few times a week for a while, which is an exhausting ordeal all its own. 

 

It’s after he’s finally left one Sunday night, checking his phone and yelping about being late for dinner (after Clint not so subtly checked the oven for the fifth time), that the whirlwind of the last few months finally feels like it’s settled. 

 

Phil sits on the couch and sighs happily, wrapping his arms around Clint when he settles beside him. His leg is still in its cast, but he’s walking pretty much unaided and hasn’t been taking the painkillers for weeks. The girls' signatures cover it, alongside Clint’s ex-teammates' and those of some of his new ones. Phil’s thinking about keeping it as a keepsake of this strange time of both their lives. Clint, ever the pragmatic, thinks that’s a dumb idea. 

 

Lately, as the cast’s removal draws closer, they’ve been quietly discussing what they’re going to _do_ with themselves when it’s gone. Mostly it’s a lot of kneeling on Clint’s part, and shower sex. It’s a little tough for him to fuck Phil with his leg like it is, so that’s most definitely on the agenda. They’ve delved into some outlandish possibilities too - the kitchen counter features in a lot of those - all the while making out like teenagers and jerking each other off. 

 

That’s what they do now, with Clint telling Phil just how he’s going to get so strong he’ll lift Phil up and fuck him against the wall, carry him all over the house with his cock inside him before laying him on the windowsill and finishing inside him in front of Mrs Michaels next door. It’s silly, and not even particularly erotic to imagine Phil’s elderly neighbour’s scandalised face, but Clint’s kissing his neck and saying these things in such a perfect, sexy voice that Phil comes anyway. 

 

“Are you sure you’re not going to regret this?” Phil asks later, once they’re both full of Clint’s wonderful cooking and back on the couch. One of the dogs rolls over in its little bed under the coffee table; the other one’s asleep on Clint’s chest. It’s more perfect than Phil’s ever dared dream his life could be, but there’s a voice in the back of his head that won’t let go of the thought that it’s not enough - that _he’s_ not enough - for Clint. Not after the incredible life Clint's had. Could _still_ have.

 

Clint sighs, putting down his book and startling the dog (though it doesn’t get up; they’re lazy little things). They have had variations of this conversation a number of times. 

 

“Phil. The only thing I regret is not having you in my life for so many years. And,” he adds when Phil looks down at his hands, “I’m gonna prove it to you one way or another if it’s the last thing I do.” 

 

Phil looks up at that to find Clint looking resolute. “I love you,” Clint adds, which is what he says to explain most things. 

 

“I love you too,” Phil replies. 

 

-

 

The girls reach the state finals, and Phil paces up and down, worrying his bottom lip as he watches them play their hearts out. Clint spends the entire game yelling from a lawnchair on the sideline, all sense of privacy and secrecy thrown to the wind. Ninety minutes ends with Clint giving the girls a pep talk worthy of Churchill, but unfortunately, they lose on penalties. It’s still better than Phil’s ever seen the team perform before, and though they’re dejected at first, the girls perk up when he and Clint treat them to pizzas and milkshakes afterwards. 

 

Clint’s leg is pretty gross-looking when the cast comes off, white and wrinkly like it’s been in the bath too long. But Clint’s grin and cheeky banter with the nurses makes up for it, and he’s jumping up and down, kicking imaginary balls around as soon as the doctor gives him the all-clear. 

 

He says later that he’d planned on proposing right then and there - kneeling down as soon as he was able, but was put off by the guy puking down the hall. Phil wouldn’t have minded that, but when Clint’s covered in mud and grass stains, kneeling and holding out a ring after his first goal for his new team to the whoops and hollers of Phil’s girls in the stands, Phil thinks that’s perhaps a little more romantic. Either way, he still says yes.

 

 

\--

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
